


everywhere I go, I see his face

by caffeine101



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: """""death""""", Canonical Character Death, Hallucinations, Hurt John Watson, John Watson Whump, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, aka while sherlock is gone, bthb: hallucinations, rated T for bad words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 17:50:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20911655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caffeine101/pseuds/caffeine101
Summary: His mind wanted Sherlock to be alive, well, and real. But he wasn’t alive, and he wasn’t well, and the Sherlock he had seen, well-He wasn’t real.//John hallucinates Sherlock.





	everywhere I go, I see his face

**Author's Note:**

> always loved reading these, when I spun 'hallucinations' I figured it was finally time to write my own.
> 
> again, I don't know anything about anything, any mistakes are on me & my lack of research into hallucinations.

The first time John saw Sherlock again, it was at a crime scene.

He had actually stumbled upon it by accident on his way to the clinic _(couldn’t go back to crime scenes anymore, not without Sherlock.)_ The mediocre Indian place he sometimes stopped by on his way to and from the clinic was surrounded by yellow tape, and, curious and a bit worried for the nice man, barely out of his teens, that always greeted him at the front by name, John ducked under the yellow tape. He nodded at the officers around the perimeter that he recognized - and that recognized him and let him pass without complaint, thankfully - and made his way through the sea of people to get inside.

Thankfully, it wasn’t the cheerful man, but someone who looked similar enough to him that they could be brothers. _(John wondered if the man would rather that he’d died instead of his brother, because John would have rather he’d died than Sherlock, losing someone close to you was so, so much worse than losing yourself-)_ With a partially relieved, partially tired sigh, John cast a glance around the room to see if he could spot Greg, only for his eyes to land on a familiar figure hunched over the corpse, a familiar figure that had been dead for almost a month and surely, surely couldn’t really be there.

Despite what his head said, though, John knew that that was Sherlock, had seen this same picture so many times with so many different bodies, Sherlock’s exact stance burned into his mind, and knew that _this was him, it really was-_

“-Sherlock?” John said quietly, loud enough for Sherlock to hear but not loud enough for anyone else to hear - why wasn’t anyone else seeing Sherlock, anyway? The doctor side of him was screaming something at him, but he couldn’t muster up enough energy to care when Sherlock was right there, in front of him.

Sherlock turned around, a familiar glint in his eyes. Sherlock had many different glints and shimmers and twinkles in his eyes, and John knew every one of them. This was his _all the Yarders and stupid and this case is obvious_ face. He shot John one of his private grins, reserved only for giggling at crime scenes and Chinese takeout and _John_, and he could practically say Sherlock’s next words with him. “The intelligence and dignity of Scotland Yard decrease exponentially every day. This case is mind-numbingly clear - to anyone that has a mind, of course. Can’t you see, John? What happened?” 

The words were clearly an invitation to try his hand at some of Sherlock’s deducing skills, and that was much easier than thinking about what Sherlock was doing there, slipping so seamlessly back into John’s life without creating a single ripple, if the ignorance of the people around him was any indication, so John turned his eyes to the crime scene, and began muttering what Sherlock would have proudly proclaimed. “No sign of forced entry on the door, yet there are no witnesses - this was done either before opening time or after closing time by someone the victim knew, further proved by the fact that the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the forehead: he would have had time to look at his attacker, even fight them, but there’s no signs of a stuggle-” John bent down, stared intensely at the man’s nails. “-and no skin under his fingertips. He’s not been here long - ice from what he was holding hasn’t melted - so it was before opening time, and-”

“Sherlock really did teach you a thing or two about deductions, huh?” someone said from behind him, and John cut himself off abruptly to spin around and come face to face with Sally, who was looking equal parts annoyed and disappointed. John hadn’t known anyone had been listening to him. “I thought I told you to get a hobby before he could infect you, too.”

“Donovan,” came another voice from across the room, this one Greg’s, who shot Sally a warning look before turning to John. “John, how’ve you been? I haven’t seen you at a crime scene, since, well . . .” He trailed off awkwardly, and John wanted to ask him what he was talking about, why did he still look so sad and so awkward when Sherlock was right there, right in front of the body?

He didn’t answer, and instead he turned to Sherlock, eyes questioning, searching for an explanation, but found none. Sherlock, instead, stood up, saying, “Good, John, but not good enough. I can tell you what you missed, which was almost everything, while we go find the killer. Come along!” 

John shot another look around the room. No one was paying attention to Sherlock, which was doubly odd. Sherlock always commanded the eyes of everyone in the room, either by his dramatic fashion and billowing Belstaff, his quick deductions and clever mind, or his sharp insults and harsh jabs. Never had an entire room been so . . . indifferent to the tall man. Sherlock was also supposed to be dead, had been for a while _(John had never really gotten over it, still preparing two cups of tea and leaving all of Sherlock’s things untouched)_, so why wasn’t anyone-

Oh.

John watched as Sherlock seemed to fade away the further and further he got from John, and as he walked out of the building, he disappeared completely, wisps of smoke flying away no matter how hard John tried to grasp on, try to keep his Sherlock with him, alive and well. But he wasn’t alive, and he wasn’t well, and the Sherlock he had seen, well-

He wasn’t real. 

This was what he had been trying to tell himself, that the reason no one but him had reacted to Sherlock was because he really was the only one who could _see_ Sherlock. John fought the urge to let out a hollow laugh _(laughing by himself at crime scenes instead of with Sherlock was wrong, all wrong)_. Sherlock had really taken so much out of him, had taken so much of John with him that the only way John could fill the gaping hole in his chest was to make up his own vision of Sherlock, his own vision of Sherlock to console his mournful, grieving mind that _still_ had yet to stop seeing Sherlock in faces on the street.__

_ _“John?” Greg’s voice once again jolted him out of his reverie. “Are you okay? You seem-”_ _

_ _He didn’t want to know. “I’m fine,” John said, clearing his throat, proud of how even his voice was even if all he wanted to do right now was throw something. “I just- need to go. I’m going to be late.”_ _

_ _It wasn’t technically a lie, but he felt bad for abandoning Greg by himself all the same _(not as bad as knowing that he was going insane, going mad with his longing, his need to have Sherlock back, something that would never happen again.)__ _

_ _John avoided crime scenes after that._ _

_ __ _

\---

The next time he saw Sherlock, it was Tesco’s, which was a dead giveaway that this Sherlock was fake. Sherlock would never step into Tesco’s if he could help it, and even then only if he was chasing a murderer, whose crime had to be at least a 7, maybe even 8.

He had appeared at the end of the aisle as John was debating over wholemeal or white bread. He was in the same red shirt, Belstaff, and scarf as he had been at the crime scene only two days earlier. As soon as John spotted Sherlock, Sherlock started walking - prowling - towards him, and John almost wanted to flinch back, to get away from the fake Sherlock his mind had conjured up, but there was another person in the aisle with him, and he didn’t want to scare her away by flinching away from nothing, so instead he just turned back to the bread. Wholemeal was more expensive, but it was supposed to be healthier. 

Indifference didn’t stop fake-Sherlock’s persistance _(just like the real Sherlock, just like the _dead_ Sherlock-)_, instead only seeming to make him more determined to have John’s attention. John wondered wryly why his mind hated him, why it was so determined to rub in John’s face that Sherlock was gone and was never coming back. “Did you figure it out?” fake-Sherlock asked from somewhere above his shoulder. 

John didn’t answer. He tried to tune Sherlock out, go back to thinking about the bread, but _(just like the real Sherlock, too much like the real Sherlock, why did John know Sherlock so damn well to be able to torture himself like this)_ Sherlock didn’t like being ignored, and said louder, “John? John, come on, this is petty, I haven’t done anything. John?” 

Fake-Sherlock kept talking and asking and just being there, and wouldn’t go away, and it grated on John’s nerves and his sanity more and more until-

“Go away! You’re not him, so go away!” John glared at fake-Sherlock, who stepped back, face impassive in the way John knew meant that he was trying hide his hurt, before just . . . disappearing. John was left glaring at nothing, alone in a Tesco’s bread aisle, with the women to his left shooting him nervous side-eye looks before scuttling away. 

He didn’t know whether to hate Sherlock or himself more.

\---

It only became more common from there. He started to see Sherlock every time he came back from the clinic to 221B, sitting in Sherlock’s chair _(the chair he had tried so damn hard to move, but couldn’t bring himself to touch)_, always in his thinking pose. From there, it would vary. Sometimes he would just stay there until John went upstairs, in a mockery of the companionable silences they had enjoyed when Sherlock was still alive. Other times, he would look up and speak to John, about a case they had solved months ago, about a crime Greg had told him about, about the results of his latest experiment, about how John could really find a better job, and, most cruelly, about how he really was Sherlock, returned from the dead, just like John had asked.

It was easy to give into his mind’s longing for having Sherlock back. It was easy to pretend that it really was Sherlock sitting across from him as he read the paper, easy to pretend it was Sherlock running his mouth as he made tea, easy to pretend that Sherlock had never really left at all. It was much easier to pretend than to try to fight his mind. 

The only time he mustered up the strength to fight his mind was when Sherlock tried to convince him he wasn’t a figment of his imagination, because while he knew that he already wasn’t completely sane, what with seeing Sherlock everywhere he went, but if he started to believe that Sherlock was still alive, he would spiral down a rabbit hole he couldn’t climb out of _(even if sometimes that seemed a kinder fate than knowing Sherlock was gone for good no matter how hard John’s mind tried to replace him)._

So John fell into a comfortable routine. Morning he would wake up, greet Sherlock if he was there - unlike evenings, Sherlock’s appearance in the morning was iffy - and make him a cup of tea if he was feeling generous, leave for the clinic, and upon coming back, he’d clean up Sherlock’s still-full cup of tea, have a conversation with Sherlock as he cooked or ordered in and ate (if Sherlock was in a talkative mood), and then settle in for a quiet evening, Sherlock opposite him.

Normal, comfortable, and completely fake. But if he stopped to think about it, it would burn, burn him from the inside out, so he didn’t stop, didn’t think about it. He had a piece of Sherlock back, and that was enough.

\---

It was months after he had accepted and settled into his new life that it happened. He had woken up thinking it was going to be a good day - the persistent ache in his shoulder had taken one of its rare days off, and John felt better than he had in a long time.

He walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, registering Sherlock sitting in his chair from the corner of his eye. Two cups today, then. “Good morning, Sherlock.”

For some reason, Sherlock looked . . . surprised, at his greeting. Odd, because Sherlock was never surprised. _(Further proof that everything was in his head, further proof that he was nothing but delusional.)_ “G-good morning, John.” He paused, as if he was waiting for something. Separating his fingers from their steepled position, he rested them on the chair and looked up at John expectantly. 

Damn. Had he forgotten to do something today? This was probably his way of reminding himself he had forgotten something. John tried to think back to the previous days - was today a special day? Was he supposed to do something? He checked the fridge. No milk. That was probably what he had forgotten. He’d have to take his tea milkless today, then.

Sherlock cleared his throat again from behind him. “John, I know my return has been quite a shock for you, but if you could say something-”

John’s mood immediately soured. And he had thought it was going to be a good day. “Shut up,” he said over his shoulder, putting away the second tea cup. Being petty against a hallucination was probably a sign that something was definitely wrong, but he couldn’t bring himself to care _(not when Sherlock’s words ripped open a still tender would within his chest, reminding him that the fake Sherlock he had would never be the real Sherlock that he wanted)._

Sherlock’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click. The flat stayed silent up until John left the flat, something he was in equal parts hateful and thankful for. 

Once he was at the clinic, he let himself slip into his doctor mindset, vanquishing all thoughts of Sherlock from his mind. Sherlock had never appeared in the clinic before, thankfully, and it offered John a much-needed respite from . . . everything. He couldn’t let his mind go completely numb, of course, but he definitely didn’t have to think of Sherlock, and he barely got enough time between patients for his mind to stray to him either. 

Unfortunately, before he knew it, the day was over and evening was near, and it was time to head back to the flat and face Sherlock, who would surely continue to try and persuade John that he was real, that he was back and there to stay. Maybe he should turn in early, he mused, walking up the seventeen steps. It was hours before he usually headed upstairs, but if it meant he didn’t have to hear what he <s>wanted to</s> hated to hear . . .

Sherlock was in the same place he had left him, of course, but he immediately stood as soon as John walked in. “John!” 

Sherlock had never done that before, but there was a first time for everything, he thought. “Sherlock?”

“I . . . well, now that you have had apt time to think about my return, I should think-”

“No,” John cut him off, finality in his tone. “No.” 

Sherlock slowly lowered himself back down. “I-”

John turned from where he was making a beeline to the kitchen to flash Sherlock a glare that had battle-hardened soldiers quivering in their boots, only to be cut off by a knock at the door. John heaved a heavy sigh as he went to open it - trying to ignore Sherlock’s presence was always difficult, doubly difficult on days like these.

It was Greg, who looked much more awkward that he usually did, leaning on the wall outside. “Oh, uh, John,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, just wanted to see how it was going- how you were taking, uh, everything.”

John only looked at him blankly. Had he missed something? Was there a reason Sherlock was torturing him today of all days? It wasn’t the anniversary of his fall, John was always acutely aware of that day, but then what-

“Thank you for the concern, Geoff, now leave,” Sherlock called from inside the house. John fought to not turn around and reprimand him, and instead wondered how he was supposed to answer that.

“For God’s sake Sherlock, I just wanted to make sure John hadn’t killed you, even if you would have deserved it,” Greg huffed as John thought. “And it’s Greg!”

John didn’t pick up on the exchange for a split second, but when it did, it hit him all at once- Greg had heard Sherlock- it wasn’t all in his head- if it wasn’t in his head then that meant Sherlock had- Sherlock was-

“You can hear him too?” John heard himself say in a breathy whisper.

Greg looked at him with a frown and no little amount of concern. “Yes? John, what-?”

John shut the door in his face. 

_(couldn’t think about Greg, couldn’t think about anything other than Sherlock, Sherlock who was in front of him and not just in his head and real and alive and in front of him and fuck-)_

He slowly turned around to face Sherlock, half sure that when he turned around Sherlock was going to be gone, and his mind had expanded from just hallucinating Sherlock to making up a Greg to prove what he had so desperately wanted to be true only for that to be a trick too-

“Sherlock?” He was still there, looking as if he had had an epiphany that saddened him. 

“It’s me, John.” 

He wouldn’t know for sure unless he touched him. 

_(didn’t want to touch him, wanted to stay in his half certainty because if he touched him and it was a trick, if he touched him and it was fake, John didn’t know what he would do-)_

It was best to rip off the bandage fast, John thought, and so with quick assured steps he made his way to Sherlock and reached a hand out - Sherlock flinched as if John was going to strike him - and laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was warm and solid beneath him. 

_Sherlock._

John moved without thinking, removed his hand from his shoulder and instead went for Sherlock’s neck _(as much as he had pleaded for one last miracle, for Sherlock to come back to him, he was still angry)_, grasping the lapels of Sherlock’s coat _(Sherlock had let him believe he was dead for years, had let John hallucinate a Sherlock, had left John _alone_)_, yanked him up by it _(Sherlock had abandoned him, had left him with so many regrets, so many things he should have done when he still had the chance-)_

-and kissed him full on the mouth. _(Now that Sherlock was back, he wasn’t wasting one more minute one things he should have done.)_

He let Sherlock go after only a second, shoving him back down with a, “Shit, I’m sorry, I should have-”

Sherlock didn’t wait for him to complete his sentence before this time yanking John back down to meet his lips. Later, John would probably be mad and upset and _angry_ but right now there was only Sherlock, alive and well and _real._

**Author's Note:**

> bonus points if yall know where the title is from.


End file.
